Come reach me old Anacreon’s lyre
For wintery storms are hovering near,
And soon shall chill the autumnal fire
That gleams on life's declining year.
Then let me wake the rapturous shell,
With cords of sweet rememberance strung;
While grateful Age delights to tell
Of joys that glow'd when life was young.
And, let the languid pulse forego
The throb that Fancy’s flight inspires,
Anacreon’s flowing cup bestow,
And urge with wine the waning fires.
But temper me the Teian bowl!
And chasten me the Teian shell!
The visions that in memory roll
And such as Nature's bosom swell.
If, while the mantling goblet flows,
I sing of Beauty’s charms divine;
The breast that heaves, the cheek that glows,
And beaming like stars that shine;
The draft on Memory’s tablet true
That pictures each entrancing grace,
Without a frown shall Stella view,
Or there some lov’d memorial trace;
And when with high-enraptur’d air,
My lavish verse shall most commend,
Shall find her youthful image there,
Or, in each portrait, view a friend.
Then reach me old Anacreon’s lyre,
And temper me Anacreon’s bowl;
That youthful joy’s remember’d fire
May Age’s numbing frost control.